


All the Rest

by darlingred1



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Marking, Miscommunication, Nipple Play, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Rimming, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 04:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingred1/pseuds/darlingred1
Summary: If it weren’t for Aziraphale’s persistence, they wouldn’t have had a sex life at all, and Crowley was a demon, for goodness sake! Aziraphale didn’t understand it.(Aziraphale has the communication skills of a doorknob. Crowley isn't any better.)





	All the Rest

Aziraphale had devoted a lot of time to imagining it. A frankly absurd amount of time, if he was being honest, or at least it seemed that way.

After all, he’d spent so long in wilful ignorance, and then after the proverbial veil had been torn away, he’d spent even longer shielding his eyes from the truth of it until he simply couldn’t anymore. Only then had he let himself imagine what it might be like to…to _be _with Crowley, the way that humans were with each other, the way that an angel and a demon were never to be.

And then Aziraphale had done little else, so that by the time it finally happened, he felt he’d been imagining—dreaming, hoping—for _millennia_.

He imagined there would be a great deal of talking.

He would tell Crowley for the first time how dear he was to Aziraphale: how precious, how necessary—how Aziraphale would abandon his bookshop, all the treasures inside it, burn all of London, even sever his very wings if it meant that he could continue to love and protect and cherish Crowley always.

But, in the end, he said none of those things. They didn’t even occur to him, preoccupied as he was by Agnes Nutter’s prophecy and his own surety that Heaven and Hell would come for them and they’d not be getting a mere slap on the wrist for their transgressions.

“It’ll work,” Crowley kept saying. He was pacing about the lounge in his flat, circling a seated Aziraphale like an agitated tiger, tugging at his own hair and radiating the same terror and doom as a guillotine blade being lifted for its final descent. Yet every word he spoke was sheer confidence and optimism: “She hasn’t been wrong yet, has she? We listen to her and we’ll both walk away from this without a scratch.”

Aziraphale said, “You’re right; of course you’re right,” while thinking, _But what if we’ve got it wrong? What if she meant something else entirely and we’re about to bugger this up even worse?_

Then Crowley came to a stop right in front of him, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Crowley was still wearing his blasted sunglasses, blocking Aziraphale’s view of his eyes, but his body language spoke loudly enough that Aziraphale didn’t need anything else.

Crowley’s clenched jaw said that the risk of failure terrified him. The tight line of his lips said that, even still, the risk was worth it. The angle of his shoulders—towards Aziraphale, always towards Aziraphale—said that the promise of _their side _was worth this risk and more.

_I could lose you_, Aziraphale thought. _I could lose you in a matter of hours, and I will be damned if I waste the time we still have._

He threw himself out of the chair and fairly launched himself at Crowley, who caught him in his arms as if he’d been expecting it. Their mouths were already open and panting when they crashed together.

Crowley’s hands roamed Aziraphale’s body, skimming his shoulder blades, grasping at his hips, and making fists in his lapels. Aziraphale, however, couldn’t stop stroking Crowley’s face: his cheekbones and sharp jawline, the subtle lines around his mouth, and that soft, soft skin, slightly cooler than Aziraphale’s—all features that Aziraphale had admired, dreamt of, but never touched.

Aziraphale’s awareness went murky then, dipping and surfacing like he was fighting (and failing) to keep his head above turbulent sea waves. He didn’t know how they managed to find their way to a bed—a miracle, probably, but Heaven if Aziraphale had the faintest idea whose—but somehow there they were, kneeling together amidst a swath of silky raven-black sheets.

Aziraphale eased Crowley backwards and followed him down, weighing him into the mattress, sucking Crowley’s bottom lip between his teeth. Crowley shuddered beneath him and moaned, and they pawed at each other, still kissing.

Aziraphale barely noticed the legs around his waist until suddenly Crowley tore his mouth away and moved his hips in frantic jerks, rubbing the bulge in his trousers into Aziraphale’s stomach and muffling a cry in Aziraphale’s overcoat.

Once Aziraphale realised what had happened, that Crowley had just come in his arms, he couldn’t see any reason not to rut against Crowley until his own orgasm followed.

As far as sex went, it was abrupt and rudimentary: very far indeed from the slow but passionate lovemaking Aziraphale had fantasised about for their first time. The only words they shared were spoken afterwards, consisting of Aziraphale’s murmured “You know, I do believe I could fall asleep like this” and Crowley’s answered “Go ahead. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s going to be even longer.”

Then when Aziraphale woke an hour later, it was all business, figuring out the particulars of the upcoming switch.

But he couldn’t be disappointed in any of it, and he certainly didn’t regret it. On the contrary it had been, he believed, perfect: an auspicious start of what he was sure would prove a beautiful future together.

* * *

Aziraphale’s life now that he was in a proper relationship with Crowley was not terribly different from before.

They saw each other more often, it was true, but not every day and generally not in any different contexts. They still went to dinner and lunch and even brunch on occasion, and when Aziraphale acquired tickets to the theatre, Crowley was more than happy to accompany him to a showing of _As You Like It_ or a modern musical.

They spent hours together at St. James’ Park, sitting in comfortable silence on their usual bench or walking side by side around the lake—revelling in their newfound freedom to be seen together.

Aziraphale offered his arm once, a move he’d not done since humans had begun frowning on that sort of behaviour. Crowley came to a full stop, gazing at Aziraphale’s elbow like he’d never encountered one before. But then he tucked his hand in the crook of it, and they carried on their stroll, with Aziraphale beaming at the world around him and Crowley staring bashfully down at his own feet.

Aziraphale even joined him on a pub crawl, after Crowley had complained that he missed indulging his wiles. Ostensibly Crowley was meant to be doing little temptations on one or two humans per pub, then moving on to the next, but in reality he spied an unoccupied dartboard at the first pub they visited and then spent the rest of the evening teaching Aziraphale how to play.

“Oh, bugger this,” Crowley said after Aziraphale had hit his fourth bull’s-eye. “You’re cheating.”

“I beg your pardon? I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

“Maybe not _cheating_-cheating, but, you know, your little—” Crowley wriggled his fingers, looking like he was playing a rather tall phantom piano. “—thing.”

“I don’t have a ‘thing.’”

“You do. We both do, but you’re a bit looser with yours.”

“Looser!” Aziraphale cried, but he wasn’t really offended. He was happy. Happier than he could ever recall being. “I’ve seen you drive a car, my dear. If it weren’t for your ‘thing,’ you’d have been discorporated probably four hundred times over the past eighty years.”

“So you admit you have a thing and you’re using it right now?”

“I admit nothing.”

Crowley nudged his sunglasses low on his nose and peered at Aziraphale over the top of them. His expression was playful, his golden eyes gleaming and his lips quirked in a small smile.

Aziraphale loved him so very much in that moment and knew that he was loved in return. He could feel it: Crowley’s love blazing like a beacon in this dark, drab pub, burning so brilliantly it might’ve stunned Aziraphale if he weren’t used to it by now.

Their history was full of moments like these: Crowley’s love blaring at Aziraphale, stoking Aziraphale’s own silent ardour. It didn’t have to be silent now, though, did it? Not for either of them. If Crowley wanted to close the distance between them and bring their mouths together, he could. Aziraphale would welcome and return the sentiment.

But Crowley didn’t. The moment passed, and Crowley knuckled his glasses back up, his smile shrinking, before he retrieved the darts from the board.

Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he supposed. Who knew what the other patrons would do if two male-looking beings started snogging in front of them? This wasn’t the place for that sort of conduct.

“Perhaps we should relocate?” he suggested.

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. Where are you thinking?”

“The bookshop, actually. I’m in the mood for a rosé, I believe, and there I can at least”—Aziraphale cast a disdainful glance at the pint of supposed beer that Crowley had brought him—“guarantee the quality.”

And so they retired to the bookshop’s back room. Aziraphale poured them both glasses of his best rosé and joined Crowley on the sofa, sitting so close that their thighs and forearms touched. Aziraphale could hear as well as see Crowley’s gulp and roughened breathing, but Crowley only drank his wine and stared intently at the wall.

They hadn’t been intimate since the night the world hadn’t ended, nor had they kissed or embraced. It had seemed to Aziraphale that the opportunity simply hadn’t presented itself, although now as the silence stretched and Crowley still refused to look at him, he began to wonder if he was going about this all wrong. Perhaps one had to _make _the opportunity rather than wait for it to arrive.

Aziraphale set his wine aside and angled himself towards Crowley. Crowley did the same, and judging from the height of his eyebrows on his forehead, his eyes were wide behind his sunglasses.

Aziraphale reached for the earpieces but paused before he made contact. “May I?”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted higher. Then he nodded once and remained perfectly still while Aziraphale slipped the glasses off and set those aside as well.

Aziraphale had been right. Crowley’s eyes were owl-wide, but they were also…uncertain? Possibly even frightened, which made Aziraphale’s heart seize with a fear of its own. Had he overstepped? Had he not made his intentions clear enough?

He licked his lips, steeling himself. “I… Tell me if I’m mistaken, of course, but I thought that the night we spent together in your flat was…well, that it was something we both enjoyed. I would be very open to doing it again, but if you would not—”

“No,” Crowley said. “I mean yes. Yes, I’m open. Wide open. Door’s off its hinges.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale relaxed. “Good. Then…”

He leaned in. Crowley stayed as still as he had been while Aziraphale had removed his glasses, but he gazed at Aziraphale’s mouth with so much yearning, his chest beginning to heave in his anticipation, that Aziraphale wasn’t concerned. If Crowley needed him to take the final step, then Aziraphale would do it gladly.

As soon as their lips met, Crowley melted against him, cupping Aziraphale’s jaw in his gentle hands and sagging into Aziraphale’s chest.

They fit together so well, better than Aziraphale could have dreamed, and the noise Crowley made when their tongues brushed—a soft little “nng!” that Aziraphale could taste as well as hear—drove him a bit mad. He gripped Crowley by the hips and tugged, dragging him into Aziraphale’s lap.

Crowley settled into place, squeezing Aziraphale’s waist between his thighs, with another “nng!” and groped blindly at Aziraphale’s shirt, wrenching at the fabric like he wanted to rip it off. Aziraphale had done away with his overcoat not long after they’d walked in the door, but there was still the waistcoat and bowtie to be dealt with before Crowley could hope to achieve anything.

Aziraphale tried to break the kiss, to spare himself the focus to assist—because they’d not got that far before, and Lord help him, he wanted Crowley’s hands on his bare skin—but Crowley refused to let him. Every time their lips parted, Crowley fused them together again with a plaintive moan, and his whole body trembled in Aziraphale’s hold like he couldn’t bear even the thought.

So Aziraphale subsided, striving to ignore how roughly Crowley was plucking and pulling at his shirt, and kissed him harder, deeper. His own touch spanned the length of Crowley’s back, up his spine to linger near his shoulders, where on another plane his wings sprouted from the skin, and then back down to his bottom.

Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s bum against his palms, massaging the flesh hidden beneath his tight jeans, and Crowley tipped his hips up, a wanton sort of invitation. Aziraphale rucked up Crowley’s shirt and tried to shove his hands down the back of his trousers, but they were too tight, especially with his belt.

This time Aziraphale wouldn’t be swayed from breaking the kiss so he could concentrate instead on undoing Crowley’s buckle and zip.

“I’ve got it,” Crowley snapped when Aziraphale mostly just fumbled uselessly. “Stop that. You wouldn’t know how to work a piece of modern—”

Aziraphale recalled, then, that he was an angel and didn’t need to bother with any of this. He snapped his fingers, and Crowley was nude and sputtering about it.

Crowley was lovely. Aziraphale had known he was, of course, but to see him now, sitting astride Aziraphale in all his beauty—Aziraphale’s chest ached. He didn’t know what he wanted first: Crowley’s jutting clavicles, his flat nipples, his hard, red cock with its bead of precome welling up from the slit…

“Well that’s not fair,” Crowley said, and with a snap of his own, Aziraphale was equally nude. “Ohh, angel.”

Apparently he didn’t share any of Aziraphale’s indecision; he went straight for Aziraphale’s throat with his lips, and his hands found Aziraphale’s nipples, teasing them softly at first and then pinching.

Aziraphale dropped his head back with a cry and grabbed Crowley’s hips to ground himself, so he didn’t vibrate right out of his corporation. And once he had them in his grip, he remembered what he’d been doing before.

He groped at Crowley’s arse, as roughly as Crowley was twisting his nipples, and dug the tips of his fingers into the meatiest bits of Crowley’s cheeks. And when Crowley pushed into the touch, jostling Aziraphale’s fingers closer to the crease, Aziraphale hesitated only a moment before he delved into it and found Crowley’s hole, its wrinkled rim clenched tight.

Crowley jerked his head up with a gasp, and their eyes met. Aziraphale swore that Crowley’s darkened a bit as he stroked back and forth.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale pushed in just enough that the rim barely began to give. “You enjoy it?”

“Oh yeah. Give me your hand.”

Aziraphale did, and Crowley isolated the two fingers that had been doing the stroking and the pushing and slid them into his mouth. He watched Aziraphale, and Aziraphale watched him, as he sucked them messily, getting them sopping with saliva.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, “Crowley.” He’d never wanted anyone so much. His cock, long past fully hard, gave a jerk, bumping against Crowley’s and making them both moan.

Crowley slipped Aziraphale’s fingers free. As Aziraphale circled his hole again, getting it slick with spit, Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s and said, “Go on.”

He took both fingers with a whimper and a welcoming roll of his hips. He was tight inside, so very tight that Aziraphale feared he would hurt him as he inched his way deeper.

“Still all right?”

“It’s good,” Crowley said, a waver in his voice. “So good.”

He sat back slightly, shoving Aziraphale’s fingers even deeper, and looked down, staring between their bodies. Aziraphale followed his gaze just in time to see that bead of precome drip free, a thin string of fluid stretching between the tip of Crowley’s cock and Aziraphale’s lower stomach.

_I want it_, Aziraphale thought, and suddenly he had to taste.

“Budge up,” he told Crowley. “On your knees.”

It was far from comfortable, slumping low enough on the sofa—until he was scarcely even still on it, in fact—that he could take Crowley’s prick into his mouth without giving up the clench of Crowley’s arse around his fingers. They both did their share of grunting and grimacing in the repositioning, but once they managed, it was perfect.

Aziraphale only had to keep his mouth open wide, his lips tucked over his teeth, while Crowley gripped the back of the sofa and thrust between Aziraphale’s throat and fingers, fucking himself to an orgasm that turned his thighs wobbly and filled Aziraphale so full he choked a bit and dribbled the excess down his chin.

Crowley had only just stopped coming before he was hissing, “Fucking blessed…_you _budge up. Come on. Move. _Christ_, look at you.”

Aziraphale let himself be manhandled. Crowley wanted him sitting properly on the sofa again, it seemed, and once Aziraphale was in place, Crowley sat astride him and cleaned Aziraphale’s chin with an eager—and distinctly serpentine—tongue.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. His cock was nestled between their bodies, still hard and impossible to ignore as Crowley licked at him, reminding him how filthy he’d been, sucking Crowley’s prick and fingering his arse without so much as a by-your-leave. Absolutely shameless.

“Mm-hm.” Crowley scooted backwards, his mouth making a wet sound as it left Aziraphale’s skin. “Not done yet, angel; don’t worry. Hold your cock still for me, would you? I’m going to sit on it.”

Aziraphale closed his fingers around his erection, just as requested, but his mind spun. “But…but we need oil or…or—”

Crowley let out a laugh, although it was slightly choked. “Oh, trust me, darling. We really don’t. Just sit there and enjoy it, yeah?”

Aziraphale considered arguing or at the very least asking for clarification—he’d had rather a lot of anal intercourse in his time, thank you, and he knew what he was doing—but words failed him when Crowley’s hand joined Aziraphale’s, albeit closer to the tip, judging where exactly he needed to position himself.

Then all Aziraphale could say was “Crowley,” his voice as choked as Crowley’s had been, as Crowley lowered himself and took the head of Aziraphale’s cock into his tight, warm body.

“Nng,” Crowley moaned.

Aziraphale echoed the sound and stared into Crowley’s face, trying to read his expression, but he couldn’t. Crowley’s eyes were squinted, his lips twisted, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain or some combination.

The uncertainty was the gentle nudge Aziraphale needed to find his words again. “Slow down, dearest.” He palmed Crowley’s arse cheeks and tried to hold him in place. “Give it—”

“Stop that.” Crowley pushed at his arms until he let go, and then grasped Aziraphale by the wrists and pinned them to the sofa on either side of Aziraphale’s head. “There. Don’t move. Just…nng!” He’d slipped lower, and his eyes went starry and unfocussed. “Just take it.”

Aziraphale whined, as much from the words as the bliss of Crowley around his cock. Something about them—_Just take it_—hit him like a blow to the stomach. He shook like a blade of grass in a storm and gasped for breath and stayed utterly still as Crowley took the full length of him.

While Crowley used his grip on Aziraphale’s wrists for support and began to fuck himself—hard and deep right from the start—Aziraphale thought, _Take it. Take it_, and felt any hint of self-control immediately begin to unravel.

“Say it again,” he said. “Please. Tell me to…to t-take…”

“Take it?” Crowley grinned. It was all snake; Aziraphale thought he could even see a fanglike tip on his canines. “You like that?”

Crowley abandoned one of Aziraphale’s wrists and covered Aziraphale’s throat instead, putting just enough pressure to make a point. Aziraphale swallowed simply to appreciate that pressure—stubborn, reckless, grounding.

“Oh yeah. You do,” Crowley said, grinning wider. He rode Aziraphale’s cock faster, and his voice stuttered with every thrust. “Take it. You’ll take every inch of my tight arse, angel, if I have to _make _you.”

Aziraphale came, arching his entire body, nearly strangling himself on Crowley’s hand until Crowley let go and held him close, stroking his hair.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, half-mindless with pleasure. He clung to Crowley, burying his face in Crowley’s chest. “Oh, dearest. Crowley.”

“I’ve got you,” Crowley murmured back. “Let me have it. All of it.”

It reminded Aziraphale, again, of how filthy he was, because he knew that the _it _was his come. If neither of them miracled it away, then it would leak out of Crowley afterwards, making a sloppy mess of him.

“So,” Crowley said, after Aziraphale’s breathing had calmed, “how was that? As good as the last time?”

“Better. For you?”

“Oh yeah. Loads better.” Crowley’s love was blazing again, bright and hot.

They really did fit perfectly together, Aziraphale thought. “Mm. Bodes rather well for the next time, doesn’t it?”

They both grunted as Crowley lifted himself off and sat on the sofa. Aziraphale tried not to dwell too much on the possibility of a stain on the fabric that he could look at, smell, touch anytime he wanted.

Crowley scooped up his glass of wine and took a sip. “Suppose it does,” he said when he’d swallowed.

* * *

That should’ve been it. Aziraphale had ensured that they both enjoyed the physical aspect of their relationship; they both wanted more. They should’ve been free to kiss and touch to their heart’s content.

Instead, several times over the next few weeks, Aziraphale reached for Crowley to hold his hand, to draw him in for an embrace, and Crowley’s eyes went so wide that Aziraphale could almost see the whites of them beyond the rims of his sunglasses. And although Crowley would unfailingly allow the contact, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself during it. It was the same uncertainty that he’d reacted with at the bookshop.

Aziraphale thought that he understood now, and though he wasn’t so affected by it himself, he suspected it was similar to what he’d been experiencing since the world hadn’t ended and they’d survived.

It didn’t seem real that they could have this, that they could _be _this, without fear of consequences. It was tempting to wait for the other shoe to drop, to spend their lives dreading the moment one of their former colleagues would pop out and say _Thought you’d got away with it, didn’t you? _and then snatch it all away again.

So, yes, Aziraphale understood. But he also would’ve liked to bestow the same unthinking acts of affection on his lover as he’d seen countless humans bestow on theirs.

And the sex. He wouldn’t have argued with rather a lot more sex.

_Perhaps_, he thought when a simple hand on Crowley’s knee had nearly sent the Bentley careening off the street and striking down a dozen poor pedestrians, _he’s not comfortable yet with the reality of a romantic relationship._

After six millennia of denying oneself, Aziraphale supposed that one could become accustomed to, or even reliant on, the way things were. Perhaps Crowley merely needed Aziraphale to continue giving him the occasional nudge, as it were: pushing him farther and farther out of what was comfortable and safe but—as Aziraphale well knew—dreadfully unsatisfying.

After all, that was what Crowley had done for him, wasn’t it? Six thousand years of careful, gentle nudging until Aziraphale finally saw that Heaven was not and had never truly been _his side_. And now he was so happy and grateful to Crowley for it.

Aziraphale could do the same for Crowley. Of course he could. He would be honoured to.

He stopped settling for seeing Crowley a few times a week and started pushing for daily excursions that lasted as long as Aziraphale could draw them out.

In restaurants, he never sat across from Crowley when he could sit beside him, and regardless of where they were, he ensured his hand was always within reach, always tipped in such a way as to invite Crowley to hold it or at the very least cover it with his own. Crowley had yet to take him up on the offer, but Aziraphale had caught him numerous times staring at Aziraphale’s hand like he was considering it.

Aziraphale continued making his own affectionate overtures, and he prefaced each one with “Do you mind…?” so that he didn’t misjudge or overstep—and to demonstrate that Crowley could ask for what he wanted, the same as Aziraphale could.

Crowley never once refused, whether it was a kiss on the cheek or another arm-in-arm stroll through the park. It seemed a good sign, even if each touch still left him visibly flustered.

Aziraphale also began insisting they do activities that Crowley enjoyed and spend time at Crowley’s flat.

Aziraphale actually quite liked Crowley’s flat, despite what Crowley seemed to think. He had those stunning plants, which Aziraphale always made a point of greeting with a cheerful “Aren’t you looking lovely!” (And Crowley made a point of snapping in response, “Don’t give them ideas!”)

Crowley also had a fridge that was full to the brim and never failed to have whatever foodstuff Aziraphale was in the mood for.

Then, of course, there was the fact that Crowley was quicker to part with his sunglasses in the safety of his own flat, as he did now, slipping them off just before he disappeared into the kitchen to make Aziraphale a mug of hot cocoa.

“Don’t worry about him,” Aziraphale whispered to the plants when they were alone. “He’s actually quite proud of you all. I can tell.”

He walked to the lounge and took off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and loosened his bowtie. He considered doing away with the tie and the waistcoat but decided that might be a bit forward.

He was waiting on the newly conjured sofa—wonderfully plush, the kind one could sink into like a warm bath—when Crowley returned, having done away with his own coat and carrying a tartan-patterned mug that Aziraphale had never seen before and suspected hadn’t existed much longer than the sofa.

The cocoa tasted rich, positively decadent, and the temperature was perfect: enough to fill Aziraphale’s chest with warmth but not burn his tongue.

“Good?” Crowley asked.

“Mm. Divine.”

“Infernal, actually.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, but he was smiling. “You know I didn’t mean literally.”

Crowley plopped onto the sofa, farther away than Aziraphale would’ve preferred. Without his coat he looked so very long and slender, and Aziraphale always ached to hold and protect him like something fragile.

“I’m guessing this”—Crowley gestured at the television, in front of which Aziraphale had positioned the sofa—“means you want to watch something?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale thought quickly. He’d watched—and, on occasion, enjoyed—television, but usually at Crowley’s behest, and he tended to forget the details as soon as whatever it was had finished. “I thought we could watch…er, that programme you like, about the charming older women.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You have an interesting definition of ‘charming.’”

“Comes of spending so much time with a demon, I expect.”

Crowley chuckled at the tease, as Aziraphale had known he would. “Comes of being a bit of a bastard if you ask me.”

He waved an arm at the television, and the screen blinked on and promptly led into the programme’s opening theme. Then he kicked off his boots, folded his legs under him, and leaned against the sofa arm, angled away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale frowned. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Do you mind if I come closer?” he asked. “Perhaps…well, lie against you?”

Crowley froze, not even breathing, for so long that Aziraphale began to worry he’d accidentally stopped time somehow. Then Crowley sat up straight, primly even, in a way that looked terribly unlike him, and sent Aziraphale a glance so nonchalant that it struck Aziraphale as oddly heart-breaking. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale scooted across the sofa, taking care not to spill his cocoa, and leaned into Crowley’s side. It was awkward for a moment, the two of them pressed stiffly together, but then Crowley raised his arm and draped it over the back of the sofa, inviting Aziraphale to nestle in.

And, oh, _there_. That was it. Cradling his cocoa carefully in both hands, Aziraphale nuzzled Crowley’s chest and rested his head against it, relishing the sound of Crowley’s heart—which was, tellingly, racing—and the gentle movements of his breath.

Another few minutes later, Crowley’s arm had curled to wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and several minutes after that, Crowley had laid his cheek on the top of Aziraphale’s head. His heartbeat still hadn’t slowed, and Aziraphale’s had sped up to match it.

On the television, the first episode ended and another began. Aziraphale was paying very little attention to it and suspected that Crowley was doing the same.

When Aziraphale finished his cocoa and raised his head to find somewhere to set it down, Crowley took the mug without a word and dropped it onto a side table, which seemed to have popped into existence solely for that purpose.

“Want anything else?” Crowley said.

With his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, he guided Aziraphale’s head to its former place on his chest. It was the nearest he had come to instigating any sort of physical affection, and it sent Aziraphale’s pulse fluttering even faster, like a dragonfly buzzing wildly in his veins.

_Yes_, he thought, _I want you_. Aloud he said, “Well…” He tipped his head and ran his nose along Crowley’s collar, slipping every now and again to brush Crowley’s bare skin. “Do you mind if I kiss your neck?”

Crowley exhaled noisily. His fingers tightened on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “All yours, angel. Have at it.”

Aziraphale kissed his collarbone first, a barely there caress. Emboldened by Crowley’s shiver and pleased little sigh, he dragged his lips higher and pressed them, open-mouthed and wet, to the side of Crowley’s throat.

Crowley cocked his head, giving Aziraphale more room. Aziraphale opened wider, gave an experimental suck, and was rewarded with a moan that rumbled against his tongue.

So he kept at it, testing different pressures and locations, until he’d worked out what Crowley liked best—a hard, sucking bite where his neck met his shoulder. When Aziraphale sank his teeth in, Crowley cried out loud and long and kicked his feet uselessly in the air, like it felt so good his corporation didn’t know what to do with itself.

It left a mark that had already darkened to a deep red when Aziraphale drew away, and he thought with some smugness that it would be purple by morning, if not black. He was still admiring it, the sheen of his saliva and the clear indentions of his teeth, when Crowley gave a full-body twitch and lurched forward, crushing his lips against Aziraphale’s.

This time Aziraphale was the one who found himself hauled in Crowley’s lap, but once he got there, Crowley didn’t settle back, happy to be pinned. He growled, “Hold on,” and then, one hand on Aziraphale’s back and the other on his bum, he stood.

It wasn’t graceful. Aziraphale, startled, squeezed Crowley’s neck a bit much, and Crowley staggered a few steps before he regained his balance.

“What,” Aziraphale squeaked, “are you doing? Crowley, I’m not small enough to carry!”

“For Hell’s sake, I’m a demon. If my legs weren’t so wobbly, it would’ve been fine.”

_Oh_, Aziraphale thought, reading easily between the lines, _I made his knees weak. _He floated happily on that cloud as Crowley carried him out of the lounge and towards the bedroom. The television went silent as soon as they’d left, but Aziraphale was only vaguely aware of it.

Thankfully, Crowley set him nicely on the bed rather than tossing him like some sort of Neandertal.

“Perhaps let’s not do that again,” Aziraphale said kindly.

“Yeah, went a bit better in my head.” Crowley looked quite embarrassed about it.

Taking pity on him, Aziraphale decided not to mention it again. “I’m going to take my clothes off. And while I’m doing that, I think you should take yours off and then join me. How does that sound?”

“No complaints here.”

Aziraphale undressed, trying to balance his need for haste with his desire to treat his clothes with the appropriate care. They still hadn’t completely recovered from Crowley miracling them away the last time.

When he finished he found Crowley, already nude, watching him with an unreadable expression. In the next instant, though, Crowley seemed to snap out of it and climbed onto the bed. He crawled to Aziraphale, all long, sinuous movements that weren’t very snakelike yet made Aziraphale recall his snake form all the same.

As Crowley came to a stop beside him, hovering like he was unsure of his welcome, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley’s neck was marked in more places than simply the largest, reddest one, his pale skin peppered here and there with pink moons of various phases and one slightly darker ring of teeth.

Aziraphale had done it all with the best of intentions and good results, of course, but he still cringed at his own brutishness. “Oh, dear. I made something of a mess of your neck.”

Crowley laid a palm across his throat and poked at the bruises. It reminded Aziraphale of their encounter at the bookshop, and he blushed, less with embarrassment than desire.

“No complaints about that either,” Crowley said. He gave Aziraphale a slow, lingering once-over. The heat in his gaze enflamed Aziraphale further. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance of me returning the favour?”

Aziraphale hesitated, struck by the idea of carrying his own marks, tender and obscenely visible, but admitted, “I don’t mind a little roughness on occasion, but pain is…rather detrimental to my enjoyment, I’m afraid.”

Crowley made a thoughtful sound. “Fair enough. I’ll just have to make a mess of you in other ways, won’t I?”

All the possibilities ran riot through Aziraphale’s mind. He wanted all of them, and he wanted them now, tomorrow, a century from tomorrow. He reached for Crowley, hoping to show him even a fraction of how much Aziraphale wanted him.

It seemed that was what Crowley had been waiting for. He didn’t just let Aziraphale draw him in; he lunged forward and practically tackled Aziraphale to the mattress, kissing him with a hunger so raw and unrestrained that Aziraphale felt weak—wonderfully so—under its weight.

Aziraphale had never been overly fond of kissing; something about it had simply never appealed to him the way other forms of passion did. But Crowley so clearly loved it. Last time he had come alive the moment he’d got his mouth on Aziraphale’s and been loath to abandon the position once it was his.

Now was the same. He clung to Aziraphale, his body trembling and his ever-moving hands insistent, like he was being wracked by a storm. Any attempt to divert him and try something else for a change got Aziraphale either a snarl or a whine for his troubles.

Finally Aziraphale lay still and let himself be weighed into the bed and kissed until the taste of Crowley’s mouth—impossible to describe except to say that it reminded Aziraphale oddly of ash and wine that had been left to aerate too long—was as engrained in Aziraphale’s memory as the taste of sashimi or chocolate mousse.

Eventually, Crowley broke away with a soft, pained noise and moved to lay a string of kisses to Aziraphale’s jaw and throat. Aziraphale stroked his hair, massaged his scalp, and was trailing a hand down between Crowley’s shoulder blades when Crowley snatched Aziraphale’s wrists and, as he’d done at the bookshop, pinned them on either side of Aziraphale’s head.

“Don’t,” Crowley said. “Stay.” His voice was as harsh yet frayed as an unravelling rope.

Aziraphale certainly wasn’t going anywhere—and began to wonder if he mightn’t have given Crowley the wrong idea about him, with his strong reaction to being pinned before—but he said only, “Yes, all right. Anything you like, dearest.”

Crowley closed his eyes a moment, a rare and strangely endearing sight, and then carried on. He made a path of lips and tongue down Aziraphale’s neck and chest, and paused at his nipples.

“Was I too rough with these before?” he asked.

“Nearly, but no. I would have told you if you were.”

Crowley made a face and bent to kiss one nipple and then the other, where his mouth lingered, opening around it and sucking so gently, so sweetly, like he was apologising for his earlier roughness.

“Oh,” Aziraphale moaned, and couldn’t help but to arch into that wet heat. It was a challenge to keep his hands where they were, especially when his nipple tightened and Crowley’s tongue curled around it. “Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley switched sides, giving it the same sweet treatment. When he seemed satisfied and continued his downward trail to Aziraphale’s stomach, Aziraphale groaned in protest and—without thinking—replaced Crowley’s mouth with his own fingers.

Only when Crowley lifted his head to watch did Aziraphale realise what he was doing and stop.

“No, no, no,” Crowley said. “That’s something I can get behind. Keep going…if you want.”

Aziraphale did want, albeit more because _Crowley _obviously wanted him to than anything. Holding Crowley’s unblinking gaze, Aziraphale caressed his thumbs over his nipples—lightly, so very, very lightly, letting Crowley see how easy it was to bring him pleasure like this. Nothing more than a featherlight touch and he was biting his lip, whimpering in his throat, and painfully aware of how every swipe of his thumbs coincided with a twitch of his cock.

And once Crowley became aware of it too, he gave a soft “nng!” and nearly choked himself in his haste to take Aziraphale into his mouth. Aziraphale, in turn, forgot all about his nipples and dissolved rapidly into a writhing, bedsheet-wrenching mess.

He didn’t last. He couldn’t. Crowley sucked his prick with the same relentless fervour he’d devoted to snogging Aziraphale breathless, and he was neither neat nor quiet about it. He drooled and gagged himself freely, like he couldn’t take Aziraphale deep enough, and every bob of his head was accompanied by a small, helpless moan that made Aziraphale’s toes curl.

“Crowley,” he groaned. “Oh, Crowley, I’m going to come.”

Crowley hummed, a clear invitation, so Aziraphale let go and spilled down Crowley’s throat.

When Aziraphale had finished, Crowley pulled off, then scooted lower and spread Aziraphale’s thighs as wide as they could comfortably go.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale breathed, already knowing where this was going. “Goodness. Are you sure?”

“Ah, angel.” Crowley’s voice was hoarse. “You have no idea.”

He spread Aziraphale’s arse cheeks, bending and hiking Aziraphale’s legs up in the process, and ate at Aziraphale’s hole. There was no easing into the situation, no tentative licking to get them both prepared. Crowley dove in with a greedy grunt and immediately did his damnedest to shove his tongue as far as it could reach.

Aziraphale threw his head back with a shout. His legs spasmed and tried to fall and straighten, so he grabbed them both, bringing his knees to his chest and giving Crowley even better access. Crowley took advantage of it, fairly mashing his face into Aziraphale’s bottom and stretching his entrance enough that Aziraphale was struck by the sensation that he wasn’t getting eaten any longer but _fucked_.

Oh, he wanted that. He wanted Crowley to bend him in half and fuck him until he was the one who was a sloppy mess this time and leaving wet spots everywhere he sat.

“Please,” he said. “Crowley, please.”

Crowley sat up, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “Please what? Tell me what you need.”

Aziraphale let his legs drop and pulled Crowley into a loose embrace. “Fingers. Get me ready for you. And if you could be a dear and kiss my nipples some more…”

Without a word, Crowley lowered his head to do just that. He’d obviously been paying attention, learning from the way Aziraphale had touched himself: he dragged his lips over one soft bud, barely making contact, and when it had hardened, he switched his lips for his tongue. Not his human tongue—it was too small, too quick, and it tickled more than it licked.

It felt _glorious_. Aziraphale filled the room with his cries, and he was so intent on his nipples, on Crowley travelling from one to the other and flicking them both until they were so tight they ached, that Crowley’s miraculously lubricated finger slipping inside him was almost an afterthought.

Almost.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, rolling his hips, revelling in the deeper stretch. “Yes. That. Mm.”

By the time two other fingers had joined the first, Aziraphale’s cock was hard again and dripping onto his stomach.

“Do it,” he gasped. “Put your cock in me.”

Crowley reared back, looking stunned. “Sorry? Did you just say ‘cock’?”

Aziraphale should’ve known he would be difficult, fixating on something so trivial. “Cock, prick, dick, penis, shaft, knob—whatever you wish to call it. Crowley. Fuck me.”

Crowley hissed like he’d burned himself, but thankfully got into position. “Right. This might be quick.”

In that case, Aziraphale went ahead and grabbed his own prick, gave it a stroke, so that he could be quick too if he needed to be.

Crowley whimpered, staring. “Ah, fuck, definitely quick.”

Aziraphale echoed the whimper—Crowley hadn’t even been touched; he was close simply from _watching_, oh, Lord—and started stroking in earnest.

So he blamed Crowley entirely when, as Crowley pushed the tip inside, Aziraphale arched his back with a wail and came all over himself.

Crowley froze, looking both shocked and awed. Although Aziraphale burned with embarrassment under the scrutiny, he wouldn’t let either of them be deterred.

“Well, don’t stop!” he said, his dick still twitching in his grip.

Crowley jerked into motion, snapping his hips forward a touch too fast, although—perhaps because Aziraphale was still coming down from the orgasm—Aziraphale found that he liked that a great deal. He liked, too, how long that Crowley was, how Aziraphale felt positively obscene impaled on his length like this.

“Fuck me,” he said, pawing at Crowley’s hips and his arse cheeks. “Oh, Crowley, fuck me.”

“Fuck _me_,” said Crowley, sounding pained, stretched thin to the point of breaking, but at least he began to thrust.

It was bliss, absolute bliss, but an odd sort of it. The pleasure was difficult to quantify. Aziraphale’s prick had gone limp, and yet it ached in a way that he associated with hardness, with arousal, with the kind of pleasure that built and built until it crested into ecstasy. But there was nothing he could do to help it build—nothing short of a miracle on his refractory period, anyway, which he was loath to do, feeling already quite greedy now that he’d had two orgasms and Crowley had been doing everything for him.

“Fuck,” Crowley said. He was staring down at Aziraphale, his eyes gone slitted. He was long since unravelled, barely hanging on; Aziraphale could see it in his expression. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

The last word was nearly a whine, broken and trembling. And just like that, all Aziraphale wanted was to feel Crowley make a mess inside him.

“Come,” he said, part order and part plea. “Please, darling. Come in me. Don’t leave me empty. I want it.”

Crowley pitched halfway forward as he came, just barely catching himself on his forearms, hovering above Aziraphale and panting, whimpering, as his cock pulsed and gave Aziraphale what he wanted.

“Yes.” Aziraphale took Crowley into his arms and petted his hair, back, and shoulders as Crowley came down from his high. “Crowley, dearest. It feels so good. I’m so full.”

“Where the _Heaven _did you learn to talk like that?”

“Oh, here and there,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not a matter of learning; it’s a matter of…well, feeling comfortable enough to put it into practice, I suppose.”

Crowley grumbled something unintelligible and then went quiet, letting Aziraphale continue petting him until he was ready to pull out. Afterwards, Aziraphale thought they would cuddle more, whisper to each other between kisses in that way that lovers did.

Instead, as soon as they were no longer intimately connected, Crowley rolled away and right off the bed to his feet.

Aziraphale sat up, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

Crowley paused, looking uncertain. “I…er. Food? I’m a bit peckish after all that, and if I am, then you must be too. Erm. Right?”

Aziraphale blinked. He wasn’t feeling peckish at all, but if Crowley was—quite a rarity, indeed—then Aziraphale was hardly going to make him wait.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course. Well then.” Saying a silent goodbye to Crowley’s silky sheets and sinfully comfortable bed, Aziraphale rolled onto his feet as well. “What shall we eat?”

* * *

Sex had never been like this before.

It had never felt so freeing. Oh, it had been pleasurable, yes, and Aziraphale had always enjoyed it a great deal, in no small part because it presented an opportunity for him to simply give in and let go. But he’d never given in and let go _completely_. It had never been safe to.

Crowley was safe. Crowley was the very epitome of safety, as far as Aziraphale was concerned. And Aziraphale swiftly learned that the more he let go, the more blinding and blazing Crowley’s love for him shone.

“Come on my face,” he said one afternoon, during a tryst in the bookshop in which he’d knelt on the rug and sucked Crowley’s cock until his jaw had got tired. Crowley’s love pulsed and danced like a flame as he finished himself off with his hand and bathed Aziraphale from forehead to chin in his come.

Another evening Aziraphale took Crowley’s dick while shouting “Oh, yes!” repeatedly and then goaded Crowley into scooping up the mess from Aziraphale’s arse and feeding it to him, and Crowley’s love went incandescent every time his fingers disappeared into Aziraphale’s mouth.

And yet, despite all that, Crowley never once initiated so much as an embrace. It was all Aziraphale, asking for affection, coaxing Crowley into intimacy. It had never been like that with any of Aziraphale’s human lovers. When they’d wanted him, they had let him know; they had seduced him eagerly.

It was strange. He found it endearing at first and then baffling and then, gradually, frustrating. He longed to grasp Crowley by the shoulders, shake him thoroughly, and say, _It has been months. We have had each other in every way possible, and no one has shown up to put a stop to it. Why do you _still _hesitate?_

If it weren’t for Aziraphale’s persistence, they wouldn’t have had a sex life at all, and Crowley was a _demon_, for goodness sake! Aziraphale didn’t understand it.

He began to think he’d been going about this all wrong. Perhaps Aziraphale needed to encourage not by making overtures. Perhaps he needed to go back to, well, laying his hand on the table, so to speak, and giving Crowley the opportunity to take it.

He started literally. At the lovely little Thai restaurant where they went for dinner one evening, he shared one side of a booth with Crowley and rested his hand on the table between their place settings, the palm turned up and fingers spread.

It had never seemed a subtle gesture to begin with, but now somehow it was even less so. It felt like he was throwing himself on the ground at Crowley’s feet and begging, _Please, please touch me. Nestle your long, lovely fingers between mine and hold our palms together, my love._

But Crowley simply stared down at Aziraphale’s hand, eyebrows arching higher and higher as the seconds passed in excruciating silence. Then he looked away, muttered “Should’ve ordered a starter,” and didn’t so much as glance at it again for the rest of the meal.

A failure, obviously, but Aziraphale would not be deterred.

Another night, they were sampling a bottle of Barbaresco in the bookshop’s back room, and Crowley slipped off his sunglasses and tossed them aside. His lovely eyes had gone full golden amber, not a hint of white to be found, and the sight swept Aziraphale with such wonder, such longing to join Crowley on the sofa and lay a kiss to either cheekbone.

Instead, he sat back in his chair and said, “You look very handsome like that.”

Crowley’s expression would’ve been amusing in another situation, torn as it was between offended and concerned. “What?”

“Without your glasses.”

“Oh. Right.”

He seemed skittish for the rest of the night, gulping his wine and refusing to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, but he left the glasses off at least. Aziraphale opted to take that as a good sign.

The next time they went out for dinner, they retired to Crowley’s flat afterwards, and Crowley disappeared into the kitchen to pour them both tumblers of scotch. Aziraphale would usually have trailed after him, but this time he remained in the lounge. He took off his coat, waistcoat, and bowtie, and then, after a moment of consideration, he undid the first two buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves all the way up to his biceps.

A bit of skin, he thought. A suggestion, a nice little temptation.

He certainly didn’t expect Crowley to return and look panicked by what he saw.

“Rather warm in here, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said. He meant to be cool and casual, but it came out as uncertain as he suddenly felt.

“Ah, er. Is it?”

Crowley set the tumblers of scotch on the side table, which he’d left by the sofa just as he’d summoned it weeks ago, and snapped both fingers. The temperature in the room plunged to near-Artic proportions. Aziraphale could’ve returned all his clothing to rights and still been uncomfortably cold.

Abruptly Aziraphale decided that he was sick to death of this entire thing.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” he snapped.

“For fuck’s sake, are you?” Crowley snapped back, and it was like a switch had been flipped. His panic shrivelled to nothing under an anger so all-consuming that it swiftly eclipsed Aziraphale’s. “What the Heaven are you playing at? I mean, I know we all know what a pathetic bastard I am, but you don’t have to be a prick about it.”

Aziraphale took a step backwards, aghast. “_I’m_ a prick? Have you met yourself?”

“Oh, piss off. I’ve never baited you like this or made a mockery of how you felt. Suppose I should be impressed, shouldn’t I? It’s cruel. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I—” Aziraphale didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. “I… I rather think we’ve got our wires crossed.”

“You think, do you? We’ve had our wires crossed since the Garden of bloody Eden!” Crowley was practically spitting, slicing his hands through the air. If they’d been standing closer, Aziraphale suspected he would’ve found himself against a wall soon and not in a pleasant way.

“I simply don’t understand,” Aziraphale continued quickly, before Crowley got even angrier, “why I must always be the initiator.”

“Initiator? The initiator of what?”

“Of _us_, my dear. I would prefer my—” He flipped through words, cycling past _boyfriend _and _husband_, finding them poor choices for different reasons. “—my significant other to feel free to initiate affection every now and again.”

Crowley stumbled backwards, his jaw dropped as he let loose a string of incomprehensible “uh” and “gn” sounds before he got himself under control again. “Your _what_?”

“Oh, whatever it is we are now. Clearly we should discuss that next.”

“No, no, we should discuss that right fucking _now_ because it’s news to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think we’ve been doing these past few months?”

The words hung for a moment before Aziraphale, hearing them spoken for the first time, finally began to understand.

“Oh,” he said. Needing suddenly to sit, he manifested a chair behind him and fell into it. “Oh dear.”

“Just decided that for us both, did you?” Crowley said, lips twisted in a snarl. “No reason to tell anyone else of course because once the angel decides—”

“No,” Aziraphale said emphatically. Crowley was staring down at him not just in anger but in hurt, something he’d done a few times over the millennia but somehow never quite like this. It made Aziraphale’s chest feel unbearably tight. “We had…relations. I thought…”

“‘Relations’ mean shit-all in this world. You know that. You _really _know that. You’ve fucked how many humans again? And you never made a ‘significant other’ out of any of them.”

“Stop it. It wasn’t like that. They were humans, Crowley. So fragile and mortal. But I loved them all. I felt deeply for—”

“Oh, you love everyone.”

“Not like you!” Aziraphale said, half a shout that seemed to echo and stunned them both into silence. Aziraphale broke it first, admitting, more quietly, “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. You know that.”

“How?” Crowley threw out his arms, a gesture of clear exasperation, but his voice was mournful. “How could I have known that?”

“How could you not have? You’ve been so patient with me, and gentle. You… You must’ve known. You _must’ve_.”

But he hadn’t. His expression now, even if his eyes were still hidden by his sunglasses, said as much. And looking back over the last few months, lingering on every time Crowley had pulled away or failed to respond, Aziraphale felt suddenly ill.

_Oh, Lord help me_, he thought, his stomach sinking like a stone. _I have made a mess of this._

He patted the chair to one side of him, and the piece of furniture stretched into a proper loveseat. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, and didn’t even pretend he wasn’t begging.

“There’s already a sofa about two feet behind you from the last time,” Crowley said. “One that _isn’t _tartan.” But he crossed the distance between them, shuffling his feet warily, and sat.

Aziraphale twisted to look at him, and it felt like his heart was being wrung dry in his chest, drowning him in the love and the fear and the pain that had made its home there. He should never have left any room for Crowley to doubt. He should have _seen_.

“Did you think,” Aziraphale said slowly, “that I was…using you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not really. I know you’re not like that. And even if you were, it wouldn’t exactly have been a hardship. I’ll be honest with you, angel. I’ve had very long, detailed fantasies about you coming to me out of the blue because you needed a cock that bad.”

“So you let me do what I wanted? And then just waited for me to do it again? Crowley, for goodness sake. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Oh, my fault then, is it? Yeah, we can’t possibly expect _you_ to be the one to say something, can we? Course not. It’s always me.”

“Stop,” Aziraphale said, but gently. “Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I should have asked, not simply assumed.”

He reached for Crowley’s hand, resting on the loveseat between them, and tentatively brushed his fingers atop it. Crowley glanced down, looking startled, but then flipped his hand over so that their palms touched. When he went a step further and entwined their fingers, Aziraphale could have wept.

“Well,” Crowley said. “You know what they say when you assume.”

“No. What do they say?”

Crowley laughed, and although Aziraphale didn’t understand, he relaxed at the sound.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and then gave it a tug. “Get over here,” he said.

It wasn’t a large loveseat, so there was scarcely any space between them. But Aziraphale closed it anyway and leaned into Crowley’s side.

“Tell me,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “I love you. More than I imagined I would ever love someone else. And I want to be with you in whatever way you’ll have me, for as long as I can.”

“And you want me to, what was it, feel free to initiate affection every now and again?”

“It needn’t be sexual,” said Aziraphale, feeling it was important to specify. “Or even romantic. If that’s not what you want, my dear, then—”

“Oh, I want. Every second of every blessed day, I want. Even when you’re being a prick about it.”

“I am not—” Aziraphale said, and Crowley kissed the rest of the response right off his lips. By the time Crowley pulled back, red-lipped and his glasses crooked, Aziraphale had quite forgotten what they’d been talking about.

Crowley tore off his sunglasses, dropped them to the floor, and hauled Aziraphale in by the collar of his shirt. Not, as Aziraphale first thought, so that they could kiss some more, but so that Crowley could rub their noses together while he dragged his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair.

“You’ve got me,” Crowley said, low and rough. “Romantic, sexual, all of it—I’m yours. And I trust I don’t have to tell you how _I _feel.”

No. Crowley’s love pounded throughout Aziraphale as much as his own heartbeat. No words, however sweet and truthful, could compare to that.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said instead. Because he had known and Crowley hadn’t, and that was unconscionable. “I’m so sorry.”

He nuzzled Crowley’s throat, placing apologetic kisses along the smooth skin, and paused when he reached the neckline of Crowley’s shirt. A tiny half moon of darkened skin peeked out from beneath it. The biggest bruise Aziraphale had left, he realised. It had faded to a faint brown but not disappeared, not like the other smaller ones that were long gone by this point.

Aziraphale dragged Crowley’s shirt out of the way, stretching it so far he heard the stitches rip, and then he devoted himself to renewing the mark, turning it dark red and swollen with clear indentations from his teeth.

Crowley clutched Aziraphale by the hair and arched into the pain with a cry that went on and on, only tapering off to a whimper when Aziraphale finally let go and sat back to admire his work. It was a beautiful sight, like a drop of ink on a clean page. He stroked it with his thumb, applying the barest hint of pressure, and Crowley whimpered again and hooked one leg around Aziraphale’s waist.

Aziraphale was half on top of him now, pushing him into the arm of the loveseat. He couldn’t recall moving, but he wasn’t unhappy to find himself here with Crowley beneath him.

“My turn yet?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale stared into his face, his still-red lips and his half-lidded golden eyes. “Your turn?”

“Mm. If you’re done—” Crowley pressed his palms to Aziraphale’s chest and, with a little searching, found Aziraphale’s nipples through the shirt with his fingers. He smiled, positively wickedly, when Aziraphale twitched and bit his lip. “—then I get to play with these for a bit, yeah?”

Aziraphale moaned, his nipples tightening and growing more sensitive under Crowley’s soft touch. Funny that he’d never considered himself especially responsive there. Perhaps he’d just needed the right demon.

Crowley paused only long enough to unbutton Aziraphale’s shirt and nudge it aside. “Nice and gentle,” he said, almost to himself. “Just like you like.”

Then all he had to do was part his lips, giving a peek of his tongue between them, and Aziraphale was moving so that Crowley barely had to reach to take one nipple into his mouth. He treated it so sweetly, soothing it with his tongue more than sucking it, that Aziraphale could only sigh, “Ohh, yes,” and try to keep his arms from collapsing under him.

Crowley switched sides and gave the second the same treatment, plus an extra little tickle with his snake tongue.

“I want your cock in me,” he said, looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I want you to make a fucking wreck of me.”

Aziraphale fell on him into a kiss, and they shared a moan between them before Aziraphale sat back and surveyed the loveseat they were both half hanging off of now.

“Bedroom, I think, yes?” he said.

Crowley said nothing but rolled out from beneath him and led the way, tearing off his clothes piece by piece as he went and letting them drop like a trail of breadcrumbs. Aziraphale resisted doing the same until they’d reached the bedroom and then left his in a haphazard pile just inside the door.

Crowley lay in the centre of the bed, his legs spread wide and showing off everything he had to offer: that long, hard cock, his full testicles, the bottom curve of his arse cheeks and the shadow between them that made Aziraphale’s mouth water.

“How do you want me?” Crowley said, lifting himself to his elbows. The bruise between his neck and shoulder stood out in stark relief against all those miles of pale skin. “I could make you take it again.”

The thought made Aziraphale shiver—and, seeing it, Crowley smirked—but he shook his head. “This time I thought perhaps you could be the one taking it. Unless you have any reservations?”

Crowley’s smirk grew. “Not a one.”

As Aziraphale climbed on the bed to join him, Crowley flipped onto his stomach and shot Aziraphale a coquettish look over his shoulder. It wasn’t the position Aziraphale had had in mind, but seeing it now, he didn’t have any complaints.

Then Crowley bent his knees under him, lifting his arse, and all Aziraphale’s intentions to play and explore before he got down to business flew away and disappeared somewhere into the aether.

He cupped Crowley’s testicles, caressed his perineum, and slipped his fingers higher, meaning to tease at Crowley’s entrance. When he found it already slick, already loose enough that Aziraphale’s drifting fingers caught and began to sink inside, he couldn’t help but push and let Crowley take him all the way to the knuckles.

Crowley made a sound like he was relieved, like this was all he’d needed to be content, which affected Aziraphale just as much as how hot and wet he felt.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, almost a croak. He slipped his fingers out and pushed in even deeper, making Crowley grip the sheets and groan. “What are you doing to me?”

Crowley didn’t answer, aside from moving his hips in a long, languid roll, fucking himself against Aziraphale’s hand, which Aziraphale supposed was a sort of answer all its own.

He removed his fingers, and when Crowley gave a low whine in protest, he said, “Shh. You’re meant to be taking it, aren’t you? So take it.”

Crowley did nothing else, lying still and pliant, until he took Aziraphale’s cock with a weak “Mm, angel” and raised himself onto his hands so he could push back, forcing Aziraphale deeper. Aziraphale might’ve chuckled if he weren’t overwhelmed by the tight, heavenly heat of him.

“Angel,” Crowley said, sounding lost. He was still pushing back, grinding his arse cheeks into Aziraphale’s pelvis like he couldn’t get enough.

Arm around Crowley’s waist, Aziraphale eased him backwards and upright until he was sitting on Aziraphale’s lap, gravity bearing down on him and the angle no doubt making him feel every inch of cock inside him.

“There, darling,” Aziraphale said, kissing his shoulder. “Better?”

“Oh, _Hell_,” Crowley moaned. “That’s good.”

He was already squirming, rocking his hips as much as he could without toppling them both over, so Aziraphale adjusted his arms and helped, lifting him up and shoving him down hard enough that they both shuddered and shouted.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Yes, fuck me. Nng, please, come in me.”

_Come in me_. It hit Aziraphale as hard as _Just take it_ had, and once Crowley had said it once, he couldn’t seem to stop saying it. He clutched at Aziraphale’s thigh and hair, and he chanted, “Come in me. Come in me,” increasingly breathlessly until all he could manage was the first “ck” sound every time Aziraphale forced him down on his cock.

When Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore, he withdrew and pushed Crowley back onto his stomach in the sheets. Crowley didn’t complain, just opened his legs, lifted his arse, and reached back to spread his cheeks. Aziraphale stroked himself furiously, transfixed by the sight of that loose, slick hole trying to clench around nothing.

He came like that, spilling all over Crowley’s bottom and feeling rapturously pleased with himself at the display.

Crowley moaned with every fresh pulse that streaked his skin and kept moaning even after Aziraphale was done. He continued to hold himself open, rolling his hips like he was still being fucked.

“’S not coming in me, you git,” he said, his voice small and wobbly.

Without thinking, Aziraphale scooped up a bit of his own come on two fingers and shoved them into Crowley, who gave a whole-body tremor and a startled cry.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked, and when Crowley only whimpered, he repeated the move again and again until all of the mess he’d made had joined his fingers in Crowley’s arse.

Crowley laughed. It was weak, but Aziraphale could feel it, how it made him tighten for a moment. He rolled Crowley to his side and then stretched out behind him, fucking him with one hand while the other closed around his cock and stroked.

Crowley sucked in a breath and sighed, “_Fuck_. Dirty bastard.”

“Is that what I am? Hm, here, you take over this.”

Crowley replaced Aziraphale’s grip on his dick with his own and jerked it even faster. “Mmm. So prim and proper. Never imagined, oh fuck, nng, that you’d like a mess.”

“I didn’t used to,” Aziraphale admitted. With his newly freed hand, he found the bruise at the base of Crowley’s throat, still puffy and warm to the touch, and pushed down. “Just with you.”

Crowley arched and came, muffling his cry in a fistful of bedsheets. His love surged like a wave crashing against a cliffside, violent and beautiful. Aziraphale closed his eyes to better appreciate it before it receded, and he felt a tear slip free.

* * *

This time when the aftershocks passed, Crowley rolled towards Aziraphale rather than away from him, and they lay tangled together, Crowley’s head tucked beneath Aziraphale’s chin.

“Can’t believe you,” Crowley muttered. “‘A few shags and some hand holding, and he’ll pick it up eventually.’ Excellent plan.”

“It wasn’t—” But Aziraphale sighed and cast his eyes Heavenward because, well, it had been like that, hadn’t it? More or less. “I suppose it just…felt natural to me, the progression from what we were to this. The sort of natural that you think everyone must sense even if they don’t say anything.”

He waited a moment, petting down Crowley’s spine, and when Crowley didn’t respond, Aziraphale knew he had to ask.

“Was it…” He swallowed, grimacing. “Was it awful?”

Crowley made a thoughtful sound. “Don’t think anything you’ve done has ever been awful, angel.”

“Well, that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Confusing, sure. Frustrating, yeah. Infuriating even, absolutely. But awful?” Crowley shook his head. “Nah. Especially not this. I got to see all of you, learn what you like and don’t like. Nothing awful about that.”

He scooted out of Aziraphale’s arms, but he didn’t go far, only enough that they could look into each other’s eyes and share a smile that was more than a little soppy.

“Probably should’ve been careful what you wished for, though,” Crowley said. “Now that I know, I’m going to cling so fucking hard. Be like…one of those things that sticks to boats.”

“Barnacles.”

“Yeah. Be like a barnacle. Just you wait.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, and kissed his forehead and then, when Crowley tipped his head invitingly, his mouth. “I like barnacles.”

Crowley snorted. “You don’t give a toss about barnacles.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Suddenly I feel quite fond of them. I might even say I love them.”

“What did I tell you? You love everything,” Crowley said, but he was grinning, his own love a golden glow that warmed Aziraphale all the way to his very soul.


End file.
